


A Series of Inelegant Solutions

by runrarebit



Series: Redirection [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Bottomphobia I guess there's probably a proper term for that, Daddy!kink is a hard no for Hux in this, Except I think Kylo will probably be less than impressed by how this ends, General Organa fanboy Hux, Hux doesn't like the Force even though he might have it himself but hasn't noticed, Hux getting vengeance, Hux rationalising his way out of trauma, Hux the frustrated pillow prince, Hux the saboteur, I don't know I'm a bad Star Wars fan, I honestly have no idea, I really don't approve of the whole get together with your rapist trope, I suppose I'll get serious, I suppose kind of dark humour, I think I should stop now, I used to disapprove of people using the tags like this, Is this a redemption fic? I don't know. Maybe?, M/M, Millicent exists and is alive and well and much loved, Not so much on Kylo though, Not that he wants to join the Resistance, People being dicks about Bottom!Hux, Phasma's cool, Rapey!First Order Men, Rapey!Kylo, So is nonconsensual breathplay, The Sequel Trilogy was ultimately exhausting, This may be crack, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Whatever it is it is a tonal mess, and spy, and then there's me just having written one, at least not yet, bottom!Hux, competent!Hux, he can't abide Republics after all, mentions of misogyny, sexual assault is not romantic Kylo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23601787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runrarebit/pseuds/runrarebit
Summary: Basically Hux finds out about Palpatine way earlier and then sabotages his entire life and the plot of The Force Awakens- and no doubt the rest of the Trilogy but I'm not planning to write any more- in his resultant outrage. Also he and Kylo kind of have a thing, but apparently I was channelling creepy Rapey!Kylo from when he questions Rey in TFA. So there's that.
Relationships: Armitage Hux/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Kylo Ren, Armitage Hux/Others, Possible past Armitage Hux/Poe Dameron
Series: Redirection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1703674
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	A Series of Inelegant Solutions

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: For sexual assault, for nonconsensual breathplay, for mentions of past horrible relationships with horrible members of the First Order, for Kylo being rapey- well, a *rapist*, for Hux's dodgy coping mechanisms, for Hux willingly fucking Kylo after the rapeyness, for misogyny, for regressive and unhelpful opinions about men who like taking the receptive role during anal sex, for a bit of murder, for mentions of intestinal parasites, look, I'm sure there are more, *please* tell me if there are more, I think the best thing to do would probably assume- well there's no underage stuff or necrophilia- but otherwise? Also if you like Daddy!kink and breathplay I'm not shaming you, it just seemed to fit for Hux (with Brendol and all the Force choking)- or was one way to fit for Hux. The other would be rampant "choke me daddy" everywhere, but that's not what we ended up with.
> 
> I think I'll just leave this here and sidle out of frame now. Sorry about all the stupid, but I doubt I'm the only one in a weird mood considering recent world events. Stay safe out there, and thanks for reading if any of you do!

The reality is that this situation he has currently found himself in— creeping through the halls of his own beautifully deadly creation the moment he’d managed to slip away from possible supervision, Mitaka, Unamo and Thanisson making their own quiet way to the docking bay with his precious Millicent and her Caretaker droid, Phasma— _somewhere—_ thanks to what he assumes— based on her quickly sent message— are a band of Resistance scum— hopefully somewhere he can recover her during his less than glorious exit— is not the kind of situation he had ever intended to find himself in. It’s all a bit embarrassing.

Or would be if he let himself— even for one moment— entertain the emotion.

As a grown man he has made it his policy not to explain himself to anyone— Ok. That’s not strictly true— well, it is true in as much as he’s made it his policy not to explain himself _emotionally_ to anyone, but as to explanations in general he’s unfortunately spent entirely too much time giving them out to a variety of pathetic, limp-dicked officers of various higher ranking varieties, and, of course, that blight on the Galaxy _Snoke—_ once he’d clawed his way up the ranks above those that had always liked to tug their itty-bitty sad little puds and diddle their dry as Jakku and sadly unsatisfied slits while looking down on him. Hah! Look who’s looking down on who now— even those who hadn’t ended up metaphorically six-feet under as a result of a _perfectly reasonable_ response to being treated like— _that_.

Like his father used to treat him.

And, ok, maybe they’d all be pissing themselves laughing to see him right now. But this is not defeat. He is _not defeated_ — it’s— it’s— A _strategic withdrawal_. He’s not turning tail and running away so much as slipping out the backdoor so he can regroup and fight another day. Yes. Definitely.

He is not kidding himself.

He has _plans_ —

Admittedly not plans that involve Snoke wising up, someone unsabotaging all his careful, subtle, elegant little bits of sabotage, or, you know, being stuck taking the blame for the deaths of— just— _so many people_. The whole of the Hosnian System— What a stupid fucking idea. Not _his_ of course, though he’d been forced to go along with it— Had gone along with it, had even _brought it up_ when he hadn’t needed to, all in the arrogant assumption things would be just fucking _ducky_. Perfectly bloody fine.

Starkiller was supposed to— well, not _blow itself up_ , not with him actually, you know, _on it_ , but— Fail. Catastrophically.

He had devoted hours, days, weeks, _months_ to making sure it would. He’d oh-so-very _carefully_ edited plans, delayed development, prevented various divisions from communicating properly under some made-up nonsense about the importance of _secrecy_ , made sure wrong orders had been made and wrong equipment brought in— and then done his screaming, red faced part accusing all and sundry of incompetence to cover his back— even spent so much time dodging engineers and technicians and Stormtroopers to go _personally_ creeping around in its bowels tweaking this and that, cutting lines, fucking up wiring, removing key components—

It should not have worked. In no scenario he ran did the fucking thing actually successfully fire.

He isn’t, actually, an _idiot_ either. He can put together the unbearable _smugness_ of that pustule Snoke and the success of his broken weapon and equal the conclusion he is well and truly _fucked_. Best case scenario it turns out that band of Resistance scum got inside Starkiller much earlier than their encounter with Phasma and are in fact responsible for the unsabotaging of his sabotage while thinking themselves the saboteurs in the first place. This distant possibility is the reason he suggested they fire his unholy and _unhelpfully operational_ creation at their base like a good little loyal soldier and then crept off as soon as was reasonable to head deep into its bowels and investigate exactly _what the fuck is going on—_ instead of doing the sensible thing and joining Mitaka, Unamo and Thanisson on their journey to his private shuttle. Because if it _was_ the Resistance team he can capture them and throw them on Snoke’s mercy in the hope the old abscess will treat _him_ with some— Unlikely. The other, possibly _survivable_ , alternative is that the old monstrosity thinks he’s just incompetent— which, ok, another reason to flee. Incompetency does not equal irreplaceability after all— but the sad, tragic, _annoying_ truth is, in fact, that the wrinkled old scrote has probably worked out what he is. What he’s _done_.

That he’s a traitor.

Hah!

 _Traitor_. That’s what they’ll call him. He won’t even get a chance to explain himself—

Though, on reflection, after everything he’s done, all the sabotage, the undermining of the Stormtrooper program, the outright _spying_ and sending messages to General Organa— he’s not sure how convincing the argument that he is, in fact, one of the few _actually_ loyal to the First Order will prove to be.

 _The First Order as should be_ , not the First Order as refuge for a bunch of demented _Force Users_ — and that _shouldn’t be allowed_. The Force. It _revolts_ him. When he rules the Galaxy he’s going to do something to get rid of it, and _properly_. It’s irrational. He despises it. Snoke and— and— _Ren_ — are bad enough, but when he heard whispers— and then had them properly _confirmed_ , because only an idiot loses their shit based solely on baseless speculation— that the Emperor wasn’t actually dead, had, in fact, used his obscene powers to pervert the natural order and was lurking around somewhere just off stage left and pulling everyone’s strings like he thought they were all a bunch of imbecilic _puppets_ —

He might have had a slight break with rationality at that point.

In his defence it’s _unforgivable_. What does the old zombie take him for? Just another pawn in the endless stupid war between Jedi and Sith— _Lightside_. **_Darkside_**. Who fucking cares? From the perspective of absolutely _anyone_ not “blessed” with ridiculous Force powers both sides look pretty much the same. Going about making collateral damage out of the rest of the Galaxy. No. Not to be tolerated— Not even _Ren_.

—

Hm.

Of course, if he could be cut off from the Force— _lizards_ , isn’t it?— and possibly _lobotomized_ maybe he might be worth keeping around—

Ok, _no_. No thinking with his dick.

He doesn’t need Ren— and it’s more than clear Ren doesn’t need _him_. It’s demeaning. It’s stupid. It’s _beneath_ him— What does it matter that the wretched man is everything his pathetic, unruly libido has ever wanted? Twice his weight and all of that _muscle_ , physically _savage_ , cock the size of a bantha’s— and brain half that of the self-same animal, he reminds himself. 

It would be easier to convince himself that no part of him wants to keep the fat-cocked _menace_ around if— over the years since their first painful, unpleasant, _unpleasurable_ tryst— the creature hadn’t proved himself so easily _teachable_.

The creature in question is actually _Ben Solo_ , he reminds himself. That large, strong, pleasantly _heavy_ body, that delightfully fat cock, those big, blunt fingers— All part of Ben Solo.

 _Ben Solo_.

Ok, yes, General Organa is one of the few people in this blighted Galaxy he actually _respects_ — but there’s _respecting_ a worthy opponent and wanting to spend far too much of his time split open on said worthy opponent’s son’s _massive_ prick.

As he is every moment since he finally put two and two together— remarkably thick of him, and for _so long._ What else was the Darth Vader fetish supposed to signify? Ok, yes, it’s hardly like Ren is the first member of the First Order he’s encountered that likes to roleplay the Empire’s old heroes. There’s plenty of play pretend _Grand Moff Tarkins_ around without the slightest bit of a genetic link to the man, after all — he finds himself grateful he never included anything about what her son was like in the sack in any of the carefully coded communiques he’s been sending her ever since his unpleasant discovery re: Palpatine. The treasonous ones. The ones full of just _so much_ data about what the First Order has been up to— with the occasional side note of what a savage, bestial, _idiot_ is the man who, it turns out, is her son— unfortunately. Or possibly fortunately. Who knows how she took it.

It’s not much of a defence, but _in his defence_ he’d badly needed to vent, and after a while even _Mitaka_ had started laughing at him. Not outright, not Mitaka, but he’d seen those twitches at the side of that sombre little mouth. The careful tenseness of that often sweaty brow.

At least there had been some more sympathy at the start, when things were so much less to his satisfaction— but sympathy only lasts so long before people get tired of the emotion and contemptuous of the one trying to prompt it in them. That’s why he’d never actually _said_ anything. Never spoke the words out loud— sure, yes, he’d complained about Ren and his general— _Renness_ — but not about the— the— the—

The _sex_ stuff.

And ok, yes sure _everyone_ might have worked it out, but he wasn’t exactly going to _admit_ it, was he? Not after a lifetime of everyone making damned sure he knew what they thought of—

Of—

He pushes down the shudder of shame at the thought. No point to it. He had _taught_ himself to feel nothing of the sort. From the third time Ren had touched him he had been forced to concede that he couldn’t change. What he was and what he wanted was part of his nature and he _would not_ , would _never_ let anyone else make him feel small, weak, _worthless_ for it _ever again_.

His whole life, from everyone around him— not just from his father and his father’s _cronies_ , but from people he liked, trusted, _admired_. From _Rae Sloane_ herself— It’s unseemly for a man to desire to take the _woman’s role_ during sex. _Woman’s role_ — from **_Rae Sloane herself_**. From all of them. From the entire First Order—

And what is the most offensive part? That they deny him his gender because of what he prefers in bed? Or that they see something wrong with anything they see as inherently _feminine_? As if so many great and glorious and abso-fucking-lutely _terrifying_ woman were not an inherent part of both the First Order and the Resistance. Do they honestly think the Empire still would have fallen without _General Organa_? Or Mon Mothma— the old _Pacifist_.

Idiots.

It still sits— a heavy, ugly thing— in his memory of Rae Sloane. The time she had taken him aside, what she’d said, _implied really_ , but she might as well have screamed it in his face. If he was going to have such a weakness, a weakness for _men_ , then he should not be seen to allow subordinates, or future subordinates, or _worse_ than subordinates— dockworkers and smugglers and pilots and _scum_ from a myriad of worlds not even brought to heel by the First Order— to show such _physical dominance_ over him. He should try to cultivate a preference for being the _aggressor_ himself, and, if that proved impossible, perhaps it would be better to just _abstain_. It was a matter of perception after all, how could the troops take him seriously if—

He’d stopped her there, agreed, walked away from the conversation with a heavy ball of roiling nausea at the heart of him. Anger there too. Anger there _still_ — for all she ever did for him, for all he ever esteemed her, for everything they were to each other and she still hadn’t been able to see him and see _him_. Only whatever it was that all those junior officers— when he was a junior officer— and senior officers— back then and also the few times he’d tried after he climbed the ranks— had seen in him. As if he was lesser, somehow less than _human_ even for his desire to be taken.

And as to the way she’s spoken of his dalliances outside of the First Order—

Surely _anyone_ would have turned to what she had referred to as “a bit of rough” to get satisfaction when faced with spotty arsed boys with voices that still cracked and soft-bellied men trying to hide their thinning hairlines all insisting he call them _“daddy”—_ bringing to mind the image of his own father’s less than arousing presence and the fucking disgust on the man’s face if he’d ever caught him in such a clinch— all while he dodged unwanted groping when he was trying to focus his attention on work, done his best to override their attempts to talk over him and silence him in the public sphere just because he’d let them _have_ _him_ in private, and had to deal with the occasional very much unasked for pair of hands hard around his throat mid-coitus.

The truth was he’d never been treated half so _disrespectfully_ by a dockworker or a smuggler or anyone other than a member of the _First_ bloody _Order_. Even the most perfunctory back-alley clinch had usually involved at least a variation on the question of “So, what do you like?” and an attempt to follow along instead of a bunch of humiliating and erroneous _assumptions_.

And let’s be honest, no member of the First Order had ever laid him down on a bed of luscious silks, licked what felt like every millimetre of his body, compared his every feature to some unspeakably precious rarity, got him off once, twice, _three_ times before pinning him under their pleasant weight and fucking him into a mind shattering _fourth_ orgasm—

Mind you, if Ren ever tried that one his brain would have probably melted out of his ears.

Damn the bloody man.

It’s physical compatibility, that’s all. Certainly not intellectual or even _emotional_ — Emotions. Useless things. Whose grand idea was that one? Pah! He does his best to ignore his own, they only lead to trouble—

Ok. Maybe he’s not always _successful_ at ignoring them, but he’s a damn sight better than Ren. _Over-emotional **man-child**_.

When he’d first been presented with the menace— this sulky, black clad, Darth Vader wannabee. Not even a proper member of the First Order. A man that hadn’t even _earned his rank_ —he’d thought _fuck this_. The sheer level of _contempt_ the man pretty much projected at him did not help. Of course he’d smiled and simpered and done that double-think thing at Snoke that Force users always fall for. _Oh you’re so majestic, so grand, I admire you so much, I want to impress you, I want you to like me, you’re just like the **father I never had,** if you think it’s for the best I’ll go along with it because as far as I can see **you** can never do anything wrong_ with one mind all while the other mind is occupied bearing the humiliation by imagining the old death-breath cadaver tugging himself off to a toe curling climax while licking the crusty secretions from between the fleshy folds of the armpit of a Hutt with particularly bad personal hygiene.

In truth he couldn’t quite bring himself to simper at Ren— but that had turned out fine. It seems that even _without_ the helpful camouflage of obsequiousness the sulky brat hadn’t been able to read his other thoughts. Because if the man had— well, he wouldn’t be busy— _moving hastily—_ for his life now. No. Between his disdain for the man’s behaviour, his amused contempt at the whole _Darth Vader 2.0_ thing, his unwilling awareness of just how _attractive_ Ren’s general size/shape/smell/etc was, as well as the occasional brief contemplation of what the man would be like in the sack— Well. He’d already be dead.

He hadn’t been proud of himself, no, not at all proud of the way his mind would sometimes wander in Ren’s direction when he had been diddling himself with one of his collection of large, so very _large_ , and also in some ways so very _boring_ dildos. All in sensible, appropriately _First Order_ colours, and vaguely humanoid but also vaguely industrially _featureless_ designs. It had been the best compromise he could come up with, after that dreadful conversation with Rae Sloane.

No way was he going to waste his time with the spotty arsed compliment to the spotty arsed young men he once had dallied with, the ones that would want him to do all the work, that would call _him_ “daddy” and expect him not to puke at the image of Brendol flashing behind his eyes.

It sometimes seems like madness— no, not _sometimes_. It _is_ madness that Ren ever laid hands on him, that he ever _let_ the man— not that he really had, that first time. It had been more than Ren _happened_ to him—

Over one of the conference tables, in the middle of an argument, when he’d dragged the man into the empty conference room to finish said argument away from the prying eyes of the obviously amused Stormtroopers—which is what he gets for accessing the system in secret and undermining their conditioning, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. He had hoped that his own hard work, his own obvious _qualities_ would _earn_ their loyalty— possible naïve, on reflection.

The event hadn’t been— it hadn’t been _that_. The thing that had made him wait around in small, dark spaces waiting, waiting, until finally the man who had so offended him had come into sight and he could quite satisfyingly shoot the bastard in the head. No. Not _that_. Instead it was getting flung face down and dry humped roughly and unpleasantly into the table so he ended up with its edge marked in purple bruises across the front of his hips. That was the first event. It had been so abrupt, uncomfortable and unasked for his brain hadn’t even been able to twist it from something humiliating that he hoped never happened again into anything erotic. That terrible noise Ren had made at the end too— that wretched, staticky groan— Ugh.

The second event, once Ren had stopped avoiding him, once he’d almost managed to convince himself things were going to go back to normal and he didn’t have to worry about being accosted and roughly humped against uncomfortable pieces of furniture— that had skated a little closer to _that_. But! But— he hadn’t’ said no, he _hadn’t_ , so it **_wasn’t_**.

In fact the only thing he’d said at all had been a desperate yelp of “lube!” as he lay once more on the same fucking conference table with his great coat flung up to cover his head and his trousers, thermal underwear and underpants hiked down roughly to mid-thigh. The big, blunt tip of Ren’s cock prodding away where, at that moment, he hadn’t exactly wanted it prodding.

This had led to the sacrifice of half a tube of his lip salve— a vital commodity considering the standard atmospheric settings of any First Order building/base/ship/weapon of mass destruction anywhere seemed to be the same as your average rainless desert on the darkest, coldest night imaginable. His lips consequently chapped, all the time, and then he’d chew the flakes of dry skin off while he was contemplating the plans for this or that weapon or bit of armour or new ship and _no one_ takes someone with scabby, bleeding lips seriously unless they’re as scary as he _wants to be_ instead of as scary as he actually _is_. When he was younger there’d always be rumours going around that either he’d contracted some horribly contagious _social disease_ or split them open sucking dick— There are a lot of people who are now officers that walk with a permanent limp and go pale when they see him after he’d _responded_ to the rumours. As well as the rumours he only wanted control of the Stormtrooper programme as an excuse to collect men with the Galaxy’s biggest dicks.

Thinking about past humiliations and pleasant vengeance is a better distraction than thinking about being fucked on Ren’s Bantha-prick with nothing more than half a tube of lip salve smeared over the thick little monster and not so much as a “by your leave.” Would a finger first have killed the man?

Of course, he’s since realised Ren had no idea what he was doing. A _virgin_. Hah! But, at the time, it had felt less like the first fumblings of a man determinedly stumbling through his own sexual awakening with no assistance and more like a deliberate assault on his dignity. It had felt like Ren had done everything in his power to _degrade_ him.

It had _infuriated him_.

If he was the sort of man that allowed himself to entertain the possibility of trauma he might have taken it all rather badly, but he’s not. There’s no point. If he was going to dwell on all the horrible things that had ever happened to him he wouldn’t have time for anything else.

Anyway. Dreams are dreams, they can’t hurt him. Also, everyone is a work in progress— it’s true that sometimes things make him— _startle_ — things that he wishes wouldn’t. And sometimes his much vaunted emotional control is a story he tells himself more than a reality he lives, but _one day_ he will have mastery over himself, he’s sure of it, and on that day things like— _that_ — won’t ever remotely bother him again. Not that they bother him now.

He is _unbothered_.

—

Really, if he thinks about it, it was all a rather unpromising start.

Not that it really was a _start_ , exactly. It’s not like they’ve been having some kind of _fling_. It can’t count as a fling when one of the people involved refuse to take off their stupid, unnecessary helmet and show their— actually amusingly _odd_ looking, and endearingly _human_ — no, not endearing, anything but endearing— _face_.

The next time had been better though. The next time Ren had gently taken him by the arm— him somehow resisting the urge to reach for his blaster and shoot the bastard somewhere it might not kill but would definitely _hurt_ , even through all that armour— pulled him in close, then asked so softly, so gently, what the man could do to make it _better for him_. It seems even the self-absorbed little prick had noticed how little he’d enjoyed the first two times.

Once he’d stopped hissing, spluttering, demanding where the man got the _nerve_ , and once it became clear that this _was_ happening and Ren had no intention of releasing that gentle grip on him, actually seemed to be trying to look deeply into his eyes through that ridiculous helmet—

Well, he’d run a very quick cost/benefit analysis and determined that, since he seemed to have no choice in the matter and that there was every chance he might enjoy himself if Ren was less— _Ren_ — about it all, he might as well make the most of the situation. Which had led to him sacrificing the other half of his tube of lip salve to instruct the stupid beast on how to actually _open him up first_ , the utility of actually making some contact with the prostate during the whole business, and then how to actually fuck him so it didn’t _hurt_. Too much.

Ren is _big_ , after all.

Embarrassingly all this had happened on that exact same conference table— but at least he’d been on his back and able to keep an eye on proceedings that time. When he’d been able to keep his eyes _open_ —

It had actually been quite pleasurable, once his body had adjusted. He’d even managed to get off— Though it all did end with Ren making that same horrible noise as always, like a door being ripped off its rusty hinges. Then the man had flopped on him, uncomfortably heavy and hot and claustrophobic, until he’d been desperately fighting the urge to reach for his blaster and _shoot him_ — But then Ren had sort of lurched his hips backwards, pulling out, before flopping onto the table next to him instead— only to think of it as “pulling out” doesn’t quite do justice to the several awkward backwards thrusts, the sensation that made him unwillingly think of one of those terrible Outer Rim intestinal parasites he’d heard of people getting, the ones thicker than a wrist that that grow so large they occupy their hosts entire digestive tract, the ones that when fully grown sometimes decided to make their entrance into the world through their host’s— _exit_ —

Well. Anyway.

If he’d expected the Leader of the “Knights of Ren” to suddenly come down with a case of sentimentality in relation to him, he was sorely disappointed. Not that he was. He’d honestly had no expectations. It had all been so— _odd._ Anyway, the man was the same obnoxious, destructive, violent, childish _tit_ as always. Except every now and then Ren would reach out, grab his arm gently, and the next thing he knew he was being increasingly creatively fucked in that fucking _conference room_. Never Ren’s rooms, oh no— mind you, never his own either, at first— Just the conference room. Like the man had a _thing_ about it. Like perfectly shiny and sleek tables where you could comfortably sit twenty brainless bureaucrats were what did it for him.

Mind you, after that first time when he’d enjoyed himself things like regulation issue blankets and regulation issue pillows— not the most comfortable, fluffy things imaginable, but serviceable— had started showing up in the room. The room that was now locked to anyone other than him and Ren. The room that anyone else suggesting they use for _anything_ at all would trigger one of Ren’s famous little _episodes_.

He’d had to bring the lube though. No way was he sacrificing more precious lip salve.

He’d also, well— Ren had never gotten all that good at the _waiting patiently until he was loose enough_ part of proceedings, and the man was so often sent off by Snoke to meditate on a remote mountain top, murder a village under the light of a full moon, crawl into the depths of some planet and commune with whatever eldritch nonsense they all believe in, etc. etc. or whatever it was he was doing, so it’s not like he was going to exactly _stay_ in a state of easy-fuckability all of the time. So. To make it easier— and once he’d made sure it wasn’t going to interfere with his duties, of course. A man may have his needs and need to have his needs satiated, but a man also has his _responsibilities_ — he’d maybe, perhaps, kind of— _started wearing a plug_ if he thought _that look_ and _that gentle touch to his arm_ was likely.

Ren seemed to enjoy the discovery, at least. If that new and equally terrible noise he’d emitted and the way he seemed to go weak at the knees was anything to go by.

So, things were going well. Well, well-ish. Or— well, he was getting the regular servicing it turned out he’d been missing out on for all those years it had just been him, his right hand, his left hand, and the contents of his toy chest.

—

Though, just to make things clear, it’s not like the only thing he was doing the entire time was laying himself winsomely across that conference table and letting Ren have at him. He was doing other things. Collecting information, making contacts, strategizing, sucking up to— but thankfully not _off_. Yuck _—_ Snoke, doing a bit of spying, working on the Stormtrooper programme, designing weapons and armour and ships, occasionally sending coded missives to General Organa, and, above all, attempting to remind various and sundry key members of the First Order of the vision they’d all once had— not all that easy, it turns out.

As a whole members of the First Order seem remarkably lacking in principle. It was all very well and good to go on about peace and order and the better future for the Galaxy he could almost _taste_ if everyone would just stop— _being themselves_ — for one minute and fall in line with his perfect, shining vision, but then whoever he was talking to would demand to know what their role in it all would be, exactly what rank, powers, properties and _pay_ they’d be getting, and whether such-and-such they’d been engaging in a petty power squabble with for the last decade would be getting anything remotely similar— and if so they’d _insist_ he had to make a better offer or they weren’t interested.

Fuck. He _hates_ most of them.

He’d almost had to concede Phasma’s cynicism about the whole business was right. Not that he wanted her to know that— especially once she’d wised up about the continuing nature of the Ren thing, and the fact he wasn’t even protesting anymore, and had started giving him _looks_ he could feel even through her armour. And there was the little comments—

If such a thing could hurt him, which it _can’t_ , he might have felt a little emotionally tender at her repeated suggestions that Ren saw him as anything other than a _receptacle_ for release. The notion that the man might have developed a— a— a—

 _Fondness_.

No. No point even contemplating it.

—

Hm. Ren certainly had taken to hovering around nearby, _looming_ over anyone that got too close— But that was just Ren. Ren _loomed_. It was in his nature.

No. If any such fondness existed then the man would have at least bothered to _ask him_ if he wanted what was happening. Also, you know, wouldn’t have been so bloody _cold_ ever since that business with the stupid scavenger girl. Ever since he saw the man without his helmet—

And, yes, it’s not like it’s been that long, but there’s not even been the brush of a hand against his lower back as they’ve passed each other, not even been that slight hesitation before Ren turns to go, not even that — _not **possessive** he doesn’t care what Phasma says— _looming over everyone else. Just. _Coldness_.

Dismissiveness.

No, he does not have any feelings about Ren that might even be slightly sore right now. It’s fine. He’s fine. _Fuck Ren_.

That’s why he’s going to leave the man behind and flee somewhere far, far away to regroup and reform the _First Order as it should be_ , leaving the _First Order_ _as it is_ and the Resistance to take each other out in the meantime so he can swoop in, destroy what’s left, and save the day for the Galaxy at some later point.

Though— actually he will probably need some kind of Force user to deal with Palpatine, won’t he? Not Ren of course. Like hell he could convince the man to turn against his masters— Who does that leave though? Skywalker? The Skywalker everyone is currently trying to find and possibly kill— Wait— He did hear a rumour that General Organa could use the Force, though it’s not like she ever called herself a Jedi or anything. Far too sensible that woman. It really would be a waste to let Snoke obliterate her— Hm. Actually, while he’s here maybe he should sabotage his creation before it can be successfully fired at one of the few people he has ever actually respected. Yes. That sounds like a good idea.

For a while he tries to keep his mind off Ren, to keep it on what he is ostensibly creeping around to do. See what the hell has gone wrong— and even the most cursory investigation shows that his worst fears seem to have come to pass. Someone has been sneaking around _his_ Base without _his_ permission and installing workarounds to _his_ sabotage. Inelegant workarounds, not the kind of thing he would be proud of if it had been him trying to make Starkiller functional, but workarounds none the less. _Infuriating_. How dare they undo all his hard work?

He quickly sets to undoing their undoings— perhaps a little less elegantly than he would have liked. But if he has to he’s still going to blame it on the Resistance and everyone knows they’re more the _hit it until it works_ — or _doesn’t,_ in this case— variety of engineers instead of the _create an elegant solution befitting of a man of his intelligence and education_ variety.

This quickly gets irritating. He’ll be at it _forever_ — actually, since retreat is the policy of the day, why shouldn’t he just make his way to the oscillator and put in place some of those devilishly wicked little ideas he’d had to dismiss as the original goal was _weapon failure_ not _blow up the entire fucking planet_? Ok. Yes. Good idea.

Good idea—

Ren should sense it coming too, shouldn’t he? So it’s not like he won’t have time to get off world. If he isn’t off world already. Who knows what the bloody man is up to—

It’ll be fine. _Ren will be fine_.

—

And it’s not like he really _cares_ , or anything. So yes. Fine.

—

Ok, maybe he’ll miss their trysts— especially in all the years since work on Starkiller really took off, which led to him being back and forth from the Base to the Finalizer all the bloody time, which naturally then led to the location of their trysts expending from _that_ conference room to a series of other conference rooms, a few utility cupboards, his office in the Engineering lab on the planet, a few empty corridors that remained empty, as far as he could tell, because Ren was _using the Force_ to keep people away, and finally, embarrassingly, his own rooms.

The latter intrusion had been, admittedly, his own damn fault.

Ren had slighted him. Had returned from a weeks-long mission and, instead of gently taking his arm and leading him wherever the man wanted to have him— which he’d prepared for. Which he’d inserted the plug for— the bloody bastard had sulked off to one of the training rooms and decided to destroy half a dozen valuable training droids. So he’d slighted Ren right back. Ignoring anything like an approach. Making himself busy and always surrounded by people— and Ren never did do that gentle arm-grab thing when there were others around.

Of course he’d been frustrated— all pent up from when Ren had been away and then seeing the man but not _touching_ — When Ren finally snapped and went looking for him he’d been on his back on his berth, the biggest, most _Renlike_ of his dildos halfway up his arse, his eyes rolling up in his skull until the sound of his door lock being destroyed and Mr Temper Tantrum storming in had forced his attention on the here and now.

He hadn’t intended it as a tease, but that seemed the best way to circumvent the incoming tantrum, so before Ren had made it to his berthroom he’d rearranged himself as seductively as possible, made sure Ren got the best glimpse going of what was happening between his legs, and then all but purred at the man as he’d stormed into the room. He thinks maybe he cooed something about _missing Ren so much_ , but he’s not sure, because mainly his memory of the event is occupied by the very thorough and very pleasant ravishing that had ensued.

—

The way Ren had stalked over to the bed, jerkily shedding outer robes, shedding his gloves, even shedding his _boots_ this time— because of course the man never stripped down all the way, just undid what needed undoing to get the relevant appendage out and then had at it— which, on reflection, is probably a good thing. He’s not sure he could have taken the man seriously stripped to his skin and still wearing that fucking _helmet_. He _hates_ that helmet. It’s _ridiculous_.

There were words, half lost in heavy breathed static. He thinks he’s made out something about alabaster and copper and sin and _the Darkside made flesh_ — but maybe that was wishful thinking.

Ren slithering onto the bed between his legs, the way the man had rested his helmeted head against the naked flesh of his inner thigh, those hands— bare and strong and kneading at his flesh, groping at hips and thighs and arse— and he’s pretty sure he _did_ hear something along the lines of Ren wanting to put his mouth on him— but, you know, _helmet_ — and he is _not thinking_ about the man’s full lips, plush mouth, how that might feel— Yes. Ok. He likes being eaten out, for all he’s rarely had the pleasure— and, and—

One of those strong hands had closed over his own where it had still been gripping the dildo, had helped guide the thing _out_ , and then flung it rather brutally against the wall— and he’s so very grateful Millicent had been spending the evening with Phasma, because flying sex toys surely would have offended her dignity and he would have spent the next few days hand feeding her only the choicest little titbits until she had deigned to crawl out from one of her hiding places otherwise— before Ren had replaced it with the object it had been subbing in for.

It had been a truly _magnificent fuck_. Ren had quickly found this deep, rolling, powerful rhythm that had been hitting him in all the right places, and the man had continued touching him too, desperate, so gratifyingly _desperate_ , and there had been words— admittedly mostly breathed and mostly staticky and mostly incomprehensible, but what he had been able to comprehend had seemed delightfully _complimentary_ — Ren had even deigned to touch his dick, had even _wanked him off_ into a truly _sublime_ climax—

Before that same terrible squawk of static and the usual full-body collapse onto him.

Honestly. _What must the laundry droids think_? Between all the blood and all the semen— He’s sure most of the artificial life must think Ren’s an absolute _pervert_.

Anyway. That time, that time had been the _best time_. It had been _glorious_ — and not so long ago, either. Sad, in a way, that there’ll never be another one. A _better one_. Surely there could be better ones—

Still, in the future, when Ren is dead and he is Emperor, it’s going to be _those_ memories he looks back on with a kind of wistful fondness. The good memories. The times Ren fucked him just as he liked, touched him just as he liked, the times Ren made him cum and cum and cum—

Not the earlier times like the first two, or the few occasions near the beginning when the man made him give him head— an act he has always _despised_ , and Ren had proved no different than the men who had made him hate it such. All that holding down his head and all those short, sharp thrusts against the back of his throat so he couldn’t breathe and felt like he was going to puke— or the one, memorable for all the wrong reasons, time Ren had the gall to _put his hands on his throat_.

That terrible, instinctual panic had set in. The panic of a younger version of him, of men he had almost trusted, trusted enough to let them touch him, men that— it turned out— could take pleasure out of making him _afraid for his life_. He’d broken a few bones in his hand from how hard he’d slapped Ren’s helmet, unthinking, moving before that first shudder of familiar terror could coalesce into something paralysing. Ren had climbed off him. He’d reached for his blaster, kept it trained on the man until he could get out of there, gone to Phasma—

He doesn’t remember much of the rest of that day. Or the next few after it.

But! Ren came back, not verbally apologetic, but gentle. So much more gentle. Voice _soft_. And he’d— well, he hadn’t thought he had a choice and was half convinced Ren was going to kill him for the indignity of slapping the man, but he’d gone along with it because in some ways it was better choosing your own doom than struggling futilely against it, and, anyway, ever since then things had always been _good_.

Ok. He admits it. He will kind of miss Ren— but the man is still a mena—

 _Who the fuck’s shouting?_ Wait— that then, after the shout— that was _Ren’s voice_.

 _Well, shit_.

He creeps forward towards the doorway, back to the wall, peering into the space beyond. Huh. That’s _Han Solo_. What the fuck is _Han Solo_ doing on his base? What the fuck is Han Solo doing approaching Ren?

Oh, and now the fucking helmet’s off again— _Actually, now that he knows what to expect, **odd looking**_ _seems a bit more like **handsome**_ — What are they talking about? Oh— blah blah blah _fall to the Darkside_ rubbish. 

He creeps a little closer, taking stock, noticing the Wookie, the Stormtroopers, the fucking _scavenger girl_ and what is probably FN-2187 up above— thankfully not Dameron with them. He kind of hopes the smug git of a man was actually shot down on Jakku— not all that optimistic about the idea, but hope is hope.

It had been so _embarrassing_ setting eyes on the man when he’d been captured. He usually would have done a bit more intimidating in person, but, well—

It had been an unpleasant revelation— or a possibly unpleasant possible revelation. He could have been wrong, after all. All smugglers dress/look/act the same. All of them trying to be Han Solo like Han Solo’s son is trying to be his stupid Sith of a Grandfather— So. Of course. It’s entirely possible that as a young man he once went back to the shuttle of— and spent a rather pleasant evening with— a man that just _dresses/looks/acts_ like Poe Dameron and was not actually Poe Dameron himself.

Yes. Hope is hope.

—

Anyway, none of them have noticed _him_ yet. Good.

And everything is descending into _sentimentality_. Oh dear— He thinks he even sees Ren’s _eyes watering_ —

Wait. Is Ren actually considering defecting to the Resistance—

 _He runs a quick cost/benefit analysis_ —

The helmet drops to the walkway. Oh shit. No. No. That is not _remotely_ a Ren getting ready to surrender, not at all— _that_ is a Ren getting ready to kill. Can’t Han Solo see what’s right in front of him? The man is Ren’s _father_ after all—

And it’s not like he has any moral objection to patricide. Patricide can be a wonderful, fulfilling, _affirming_ experience— But, he has to concede, perhaps not for Ren. No— looking at what he sees in front of him right now it’s almost like he can _sense_ how much it’s going to fuck things up if the man kills his father.

 _Fuck_.

Another, very, very quick cost/benefit analysis, and then in one smooth, elegant action he draws his blaster, sets it from _kill_ to _stun_ and neatly takes aim, squeezes the trigger, and _shoots Ren in the head_.

He winces a little as Ren goes down backwards, resenting the fact he’s hoping that he didn’t just shoot the man off the walkway— no. No. It’s fine. The big lump has landed perfectly safe and sound—

And then he has to duck behind the nearest _anything_ because the fucking Wookie is _shooting at him with its fucking bowcaster_. ‘Ben!’ ‘Ben!’ he hears Han Solo bellow, _hysterically_ , and there’s noise and screeching and the sound of deeply confused Stormtroopers not sure how to react.

‘He’s _stunned!_ ’ he finds himself roaring from behind his shelter. ‘He’s _stunned,_ you bunch of complete nitwits! He was about to _murder you_ Han Solo, **_murder you!_** _Honestly_ — I still have no idea what General Organa ever saw in you—’

And then, a voice from above, like the voice of salvation, purrs out, ‘Do you need some help, Sir?’

‘Phasma,’ he almost coos in delight, and then, ‘Yes. I rather think so. I am being shot at by _idiots_!’

He hears the Stormtroopers desperately ask her what they should do, then her dismiss them, before she says— her voice a picture of perfect, delightful, _menace_ , ‘Lower your weapons or I will shoot _all of you_.’

For a moment he almost wishes they’ll underestimate her. And they might, considering she wouldn’t have fought them off as ardently as she was capable of earlier— they had all agreed that if the Resistance ever did anything of the kind then whoever it was that had been inconvenienced by them should be as cooperative as possible, while seeming as _uncooperative_ as possible, and doing their best to send a private missive to alert everyone else of the situation so it could be taken advantage of.

There is a bit more fussing and shouting, before her voice rings out again, ‘You can come out now, Sir.’

Very, very, _very_ carefully he stands from his protective crouch and sticks his head around the pillar, relieved when nothing happens to try and take it off. He takes a moment, just a moment, to smooth down his clothes, and then— all confidence that he doesn’t really feel— he stalks out and over to the walkway, heading for Ren and Han Solo— Which is when Mitaka contacts him on his earpiece.

‘ _Sir!_ ’

‘Yes Lieutenant,’ he acknowledges, pausing.

The tiniest hesitation, and then, ‘Sir. I’m afraid scenario 1F has come to pass—’ _shit_. They’ve made it to his shuttle, have made it inside, but will not be able to safely wait for him and Phasma to join them.

‘ _Understood_. You have my permission to launch. We will rendezvous at point—’ he considers the options very, very quickly, ‘—at point 7B—’ a tiny hesitation, and he curses himself for sentimentality, but it may be some time before he sees her again— he can’t risk her, not with what he’s thinking— so he can’t help ask, ‘How is she? Not too distressed?’

A tiny pause, voices in the background, and then, ‘Thanisson says she’s asleep in her carrier, Sir. She doesn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary.’

Some benefit for taking her with him everywhere, he supposes. Millicent is used to being put in her carrier and shuttled around. ‘Take care of her for me, Dopheld,’ he says after another moment, ‘Make sure she knows her daddy loves her and will miss her until he sees her again.’

‘Of course—’ and then, hesitantly, ‘You do have a way off Starkiller, Sir?’

He glances around himself, at Han Solo, at the Wookie and the Resistance scum, at Phasma, at Ren’s unconscious body cradled in his father’s arms, ‘Oh yes. I— I have a _plan_.’ A terrible plan, admittedly, but a plan. ‘I’ll see you soon Lieutenant.’

‘Of course Sir,’ and then the connection is cut.

‘A plan?’ Phasma’s voice purrs out. ‘Sir, you’re not possibly suggesting—’

The enemy of your enemy is your friend— or if not _friend_ , then at least might be very, very _useful_. He should probably make it clear that— for all the spying and secret missives to General Organa— he has never had any intention of joining the Resistance. Yes, it is true that he has an immense respect for her, but the Resistance is more than her, the Resistance is— Well. Resistance, Rebellion, whatever— they all lead to _Republic_ , and _that_ is something he will _never_ throw his support behind.

Bloated, corrupt, useless, full of funny handshakes and nepotism, so obviously not a way to get anything _done_. There will be no peace in the Galaxy as long as people are allowed to let their petty ambitions and grievances get in the way— No. Democracy is not the answer, only _Absolute Rule_ by a _Benevolent Dictator_ — in short, _himself_.

And, yes, when he was younger he did entertain thoughts of maybe one day being able to meet General Organa, talk her round to seeing things his way, maybe even fantasised about her standing at his right side as Chief Advisor while he ruled the Galaxy— childish daydreams, he knows.

So, yes. They are not _joining_ the Resistance— _but_ —

‘I assume you have a ship,’ he says as he approaches Han Solo and Ren, and then, because it’s important he makes things clear early on, ‘This is not us surrendering. This is not us _defecting_ to your side. This is us— offering to _join forces_ against a common enemy.’

There is quite a lot of shouting from all sides after that pronouncement, the majority of which seems preoccupied with the Hosnian System, the destruction thereof, and what a _monster_ he is. It irritates him. He resents that it irritates him, but it does. The way Ren’s _father_ is _looking at him_ —

‘I spent untold _hours_ sabotaging the fucking thing!’ he snaps, ‘All my work, my _professional pride_ , down the drain just to make sure this stupid bloody “ _bigger Deathstar_ ” would never fire, and then some little excretal smear comes along, goes creeping through _my Base_ , interfering with _my technology_ , patching things up in the most _inelegant_ way imaginable— and you want to blame _me?_! Not very “ _Lightside”_ of you—’ He tries to ignore the fact he just sounded like the shrillest kind of shrill fishwife from good old Arkanis, ‘— and it’s not like I didn’t send out a warning!’ which he had, even though he was sure the fucking thing wouldn’t work. Unfortunately he hadn’t been able to stick around to make sure someone actually got the warning, too busy frothing at the mouth in aid of public perception.

Then there’s more bellowing from all sides, the main theme being _how can they believe him_? ‘Name one reason, not even a _good reason_ , just a reason, _any_ reason, why I would _lie about it_!’ he hisses, ‘And quickly. If you haven’t noticed things are getting a bit fucked up outside and I don’t know about you, but personally I would like to get back to sabotaging the _fucking oscillator_ before we all end up party to General Organa being fucking _blown up_!’ Ok. Perhaps he might be losing his shit, just a bit— In his defence it has been a very stressful day.

‘What do you care about Leia?’ Han Solo demands, still crouched down and curled around his son.

‘She is a brilliant woman who I have always greatly esteemed,’ he replies. They do insist on wasting time, don’t they? ‘And, realistically, possibly our only hope considering exactly how _fucked_ everything has become— Phasma!, actually, no, I’d rather you with a weapon, Wookie whose name I don’t know but is probably Chewbacca considering the context clue of you being in company with _him_ , could you please come down here and pick up Ren so we can all get going?’

‘I can manage,’ Han Solo grumps, attempting to get up and drag Ren up with him. It doesn’t work. ‘This is not me agreeing with anything you’ve said or even agreeing you can come with us, but could you give me a hand here?’ the old man says after a bit of futile struggling.

He snorts out a laugh, ‘No. He is way too _heavy_ , I’ve never been able to shift him once he’s flopped somewhere—‘ usually on top of him, mind, and it’s not like he didn’t hear that chuckle _Phasma_ ‘—and, no offence _old man,_ you may be in good shape for your age but you and me between us aren’t going to manage it. Anyway. I have to get sabotaging if we want this thing to blow up.’ Which is when he learns about the explosives from the suddenly smug Solo. He’ll give him that one. ‘Oh, _nice plan_ ,’ he finds himself cooing, approvingly, ‘Simple— maybe not elegant— but _effective_.’ A thought occurs, ‘ _If_ you have _enough_ of them. Just give me a moment and I’ll make sure there’s no problems. Phasma!’

‘Yessir!’

‘Make sure the Wookie gets Ren and everyone else is ready to go, I’ve got a bit of explosion augmentation to do.’

‘Of course, Sir!’

One more glance at Han Solo and Ren— his eye catches on Ren’s lightsabre, fallen to the walkway beside them. He ducks down and picks it up, earning him a ‘Hey! He gave that to me!’ from the older man.

‘As a ploy to disembowel you,’ he points out, pocketing the thing. It feels wrong to let Solo have it, somehow.

‘So you say, but I don’t see it,’ the man calls after him as he turns and walks away, heading to where his attentions are needed. ‘He wanted my _help_.’

‘Yes. To _murder you_ ,’ he replies over his shoulder, before sighing, ‘Phasma!’

‘Yessir?’

‘What did you see?’ he’s sure he was right.

‘Kylo Ren preparing to murder his father, Sir,’ she answers.

‘ _Don’t call him that_!’ Solo snaps. ‘His name is _Ben_.’

‘Kylo _Ben_ preparing to murder his father,’ she amends in that lovely, sarcastic way she has.

He ignores the offended squabbling happening behind him in favour of heading to a couple of key panels, accessing them, and then doing something very, very _inelegant_ to what he finds within. Once he’s satisfied he turns around to find Phasma has done as he asked— brilliant woman— and the entire pathetic Resistance force— and Ren, in the Wookie’s arms— is clumped together. He ignores the glares he gets as he approaches, addressing Solo, ‘Lead the way. It would be for the best if we got out of here.’

‘What makes you think we won’t just chuck you out of the airlock once we do?’ the old man grumps, but does, in fact, start _leading the way_.

‘And waste all that knowledge I have?’ he points out. ‘Weapons, bases, troop numbers, troop movements, _collaborators_ , and weakness, _so many weaknesses_ that only _I_ know. Not even _Phasma_ knows—’

‘That’s because your weird little brain can keep track of a ridiculous amount of tedious information—’ the woman sighs, and then adds, ‘Sir.’

‘And then there’s everything I know about what’s _really_ going on—’ fucking _Palpatine_. ‘Do you think General Organa is going to be happy with you, _proud_ of you, if you waste this unprecedented chance at gaining the upper hand?’

‘None of that stops us locking you up once we get on board,’ the old man points out.

‘True,’ he concedes, ‘But Ren _is_ going to wake up at some point—’ and _not be happy_ , is what occurs to him. ‘Shit! Lizards! Do you have some of those lizards! Or— or— I don’t know. How else do you cut someone off from the Force? He is going to chuck _such a tantrum_ —’

‘Lizards?’ Solo frowns, ‘What _lizards?_ ’

‘You know!’ he does not squawk. No. Not at all— ‘ _Lizards—_ though the fact you have no idea what I’m talking about is not looking promising. Maybe we can distract him with something— the idiot is perfectly capable of ripping a hole in the side of whatever shitheap ship you have and _killing us all_ without even thinking of the consequences!’

‘Don’t worry Sir,’ Phasma says, in that tone he _does not like_. ‘We’ll just strip you naked, tie you up with whatever restraints the Resistance scum was thinking of using on you, and leave you two locked in a room together. The rest of us will be perfectly safe—’

‘ _Phasma_!’ he snaps, just as Solo walks rather amusingly into the wall.

Anyway, at that point enough time has been wasted, they’re all far enough out of the oscillator core that (satisfyingly effective) explosions can be set off, ships can be fled to, daring escapes made, and rendezvous set out on to meet a woman who he would almost admit was one of his childhood heroes—


End file.
